. Snow drifts down laying a lawn cold sheet across the frozen ground, creating art reliefs like acid etching glass, open space rolling and undulating, in small hills and depressions, bedecked in a veil of white. The silence is deafening, quiet having been enjoyed and surpassed, briefly punctuated by the call of a bird, A sharp whistle that shrieks and attacks the silence. The fresh smell of snowfall wafts up as it settles and glistens in the light of silver moonbeams, randomly peeping through clouds. The taste of peace, tranquility, in the frigid air, sends imagination soaring from the desolation of isolation to another time and place. The snow falls, falls, in a relentless race for the ground, all is still, nothing stirs, as the moor welcomes its quilt and sleeps with a cold heart, dreaming, of being kissed by the Sun.